After Close with the Oilfield Hunk

The Scottsdale night still held the day's heat when I locked the glass door and killed the front lights. My gym sat between a closed juice bar and a dry cleaner, and the lot was empty except for a black truck that should have been gone an hour ago. Wade was still under the squat rack, chalk on his hands, shirt off, back shining. He was thirty-four, thick through the neck and chest, a gut that was more slab than soft, thighs straining his shorts. Weeks on a rig had built him. Weekends under a bar had finished the job.

I had trained him three nights while he was in town on a contract. He talked little and lifted like the iron had insulted him. I was twenty-nine, narrower through the middle, shoulders and arms earned by years of this room. I liked how he watched me in the mirror when he thought I was only counting. Sweat stuck my tank to my ribs. I pulled it off and walked over, done pretending I wanted nothing but his form.

- You planning to sleep under that bar?
- Maybe. Hotel air is thin. This place smells like work.
- I already locked up.
- Then unlock it when we are finished.

He racked the weight and turned. Sweat ran into his waistband. His eyes moved from my mouth to my stomach and stayed on the swell in my shorts.

- You sure?
- Sure since Tuesday. You spot me when I do not need a spot.
- Fair.
- Come here, Cole.

I went. He smelled like iron, citrus soap, and hot desert dust. His hand closed on my neck and he kissed me hard enough that my teeth clicked. I opened for him. His tongue moved slow and dirty while his other hand cupped me through thin fabric until I was thick and aching in his palm. I pushed both hands over his chest, coarse hair and hard muscle, and walked him back until his shoulders met the rack.

From there it was bodies and breath, no more talk, just the work of wanting each other in a room that still smelled like rubber and chalk. He shoved my shorts down and dropped to a knee. His mouth was hot and wet around me, tongue flat on the underside, lips tight. I braced a hand in his short hair and watched his shoulders flex as he took me deeper, spit on his chin, one big hand working what his mouth could not cover. The suction dragged a raw sound out of me. My thighs shook. He pulled off and turned me toward the flat bench.

I kicked the shorts away and bent over the vinyl, ass up, metal cool on my shins. Wade spit in his palm and worked two fingers into me, slow, and I pushed back for the stretch. He twisted until he found the place that lit my spine, then added a third finger while his other hand stroked my cock in long, mean pulls. Chalk gritted under my forearms. The only sounds were my breathing and the wet work of his hand.

He stood and I felt the blunt heat of him, heavy and slick, pressing in by inches. The burn flared, then opened into a deep ache that had me gripping the bench and rocking for more. He bottomed out with a rough breath on my shoulder, hips flush, one arm locked around my waist. He waited until I stopped clenching and started moving. Then he fucked me in long strokes, dragging out until I felt empty and driving back in until the bench creaked. His balls swung against me. Sweat from his chest dripped onto my back. He shifted the angle and hit that spot on every thrust. My cock slapped the vinyl, leaking, while his hand bruised my hip. I wanted the weight of him, the smell of his sweat, the steady slap of his thighs filling the empty room.

He pulled out, sat on the bench, and hauled me into his lap. His cock was wet and flushed, thick enough that my hand would not close around it. I straddled him and sank down until I was seated, knees wide, chest to his chest. The stretch went deeper that way. I rode him slow, then harder, rolling my hips, feeling every ridge. His hands clamped my ass and helped me bounce. Our mouths met, messy, teeth and breath. I stroked myself between us while he thrust up, the bench jumping under our weight.

Heat coiled low and broke. I came first, spilling over his stomach and my fist, clenching so hard he lost his rhythm. He held me down and drove up in short, desperate strokes until he swelled and came inside me, pulse after pulse, forehead pressed to my throat, his whole body shaking under mine.

We stayed locked while the air conditioner clicked on and cooled the sweat on our skin. His hands loosened and turned gentle, thumbs tracing the dents his fingers had made. I rested my cheek on his shoulder and listened to his heart slow. A car passed outside and kept going. The truck would wait. So would the lights. Neither of us moved until my legs stopped trembling and his arms settled around me like he meant to keep me there.